The floating cities above the water,
of Chennai and New York cities,
those visage of heritage gulped,
High Court at Paris corner dissolved,
Towers of York still have silhouette,
beneath the rubberized land scape,
filled with air and float on the sea water,
the guards stand there with binoculars,
not to let anyone to pierce their life boat,
with the needle; the UN Head Quarters,
all able bodied swimmers and fighters,
wearing the flippers discuss with survivors,
no money to trade, only the hard labor,
from where they can procure the sand,
to restore their castles. All of a sudden,
there is a quake, what they buried,
as the rubbish near the drowned New york,
emerge and rise for the scavenger to pick,
Beside the Chennai, only a few survived,
bribed their ancestral propertied to the dead,
Those who are alive may still cling to the raft,
don't know to fish or collect the sea weed..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem